Batman: Paper Crane
by iammemyself
Summary: If he is made of paper, then what does that make you?


Indiana

Characters: Riddler, Scarecrow [Scriddler]

Synopsis: If he is made of paper, then what does that make you?

Sometimes you think of him as the paper man.

Not because he delivers papers; he's far too proud for that. But his pride, then, is cheap card stock, bending with the barest lack of support.

He wounds as paper does, little cuts that sting unexpectedly because you didn't notice when you received them. And it hurts and you try to remember why but you can't pin down when or why it happened, and you wonder if he knows he's caught some of your blood on one of his edges. He has so very many edges. Some of them are blunted, folded over memory and experience he wants to ignore. But of course you can only fold paper so many times before it can't take any more. Before you have to live with the size and the shape and the lines now etched you can never erase.

And his heart, his heart is worst of all: it's an origami masterpiece of the sheerest tissue paper ever conceived. Painstakingly designed, meticulously folded, hours with tweezers and magnifying glass spent to make the perfect creases _here_ and _here_ and _here_. Breathtaking. Stunning. Unlike anything else in the world. Held on display in a simple cage of glass, because as incredible a creation as it is, one careless gust or hand or gesture could whisk it away, destroy it, and this one thing that meant so much to someone would be gone as though it had never existed at all.

And he gave it to you.

How have you held it this long without destroying it? You don't know. You've marvelled at it more times than you want to admit. At its perfection, its delicacy, its purity and what's left of its innocence. Of all of those things as pieces of him. Your hands aren't meant for protection; they're meant for tearing and piercing and taking things you shouldn't have. If he is the paper then you are the hands that ruin it. The hands that grip too hard and leave a mark where your fingers were. The hands that fold down the corner of the book so as not to lose your place. The hands that throw the page away because even the most minute of flaws is too much. He removed it from the case of glass and gave it to you, knowing you can do all of those things... and you have done none of them. To his body, yes. But he never asked you to keep that safe, did he? Do what you want with my body, he seems to have told you, tear it and crease it and make it clear that you have made your mark on it. But you must keep the heart separate and keep it safe, because you're the only one he believes can.

That touches _your_ heart, something you'd long thought dead and cold, in a way nothing else ever has. In giving you that, must you give away the like in return? Does he even want the dried-up husk buried in your chest?

 _Master of Fear, what are you afraid of? Why so hesitant to make the ill-matched trade of something so precious for something so tenuously existent? If it's as lifeless and bloodless as you say it is, is there truly a cost in giving it away?_

There is a cost, of course; there always is. Your hands were made for destruction and devastation; that is the consequence of your life's work, after all. But you know he made his heart yours because you took it and put it back together, took the paper someone had discarded long before and rebuilt it just so, and you don't know why you did it but now you know what your hands can do and it _does_ scare you. They weren't made for that and they did it anyway, much as you weren't made to protect that heart and you do it anyway, and if he can make you do that without saying a word then what can he do once you allow him to do the same? Will he bring life into it again? Do you want that? Can you take it? Can he?

That's the most important question, isn't it. Can he? Would he? Will he?

The fact of the matter is that you think you already have. You just don't want to admit as much. You tell yourself your hands are made for pain and only pain, and yet aren't they the same hands that so carefully patch him up when he tears? That so gently smooth him out again when he crumples? That do their best to erase the marks that you and others and himself carelessly leave behind? It's true, it's all true, and yet... you have not felt your own heart beat in so long that, if ever the feeling returns, you aren't sure you'll know if it is yours or merely his as you hold it to your chest.

Does it really matter whose it is, so long as you're willing to try?

When he returns for the night you don't speak to him; it often happens like that. He doesn't need your hands until later, as he folds over you in sleep; then he needs them to hold back happenings that only occur behind restless eyes in the middle of the night. Though nightmares are your specialty, you will be the only one to bring them forth for him. They weren't many, but you've seen enough unconscious tears shed to last you the rest of both your lives. And sometimes you lie awake and imagine all the things you could do just then, all the damage you could do when he is so very vulnerable. You won't say you're not tempted. When he angers you and you stand over him, the both of you motionless, with your fingers curled, longing to bruise that smooth throat and savour the look on his face as you press the life out of him. When he does something foolish that he can't help nonetheless and needs help picking up the pieces, and you want to laugh and shake him for his idiocy and walk away. And sometimes you come much, much closer than he will ever know. But inevitably you curse that paper heart in your care behind a firmly set jaw and instead use the hands you have twisted into claws through decades of heartless experimentation to grasp the one he holds out so you can pick him back up and do what you have to to keep him from falling again. That was not today, though; today he has lain on top of you, his hearbeat living in your chest, and you hold him with one hand as the other explores his hair. And it's not the first time, but you wonder if he ever thinks what you do. If he ever sees you as the paper man, if he ever contemplates what this crease means or where that discolouration came from or whether that tear will be fine for a while without intervention. Maybe that's what drew you together in the first place. Maybe he already has your own paper heart in his own hands and you just don't know it yet. That scares you for a minute, but only for a minute. If he has it, he seems to be taking care of it just fine.

You're oddly a little... comforted by that thought. And really, it's not as though you really knew what to do with it, other than pretend it didn't exist. It might be nice for it to have use again. Even if you'll never take advantage of that, _he_ seems to be. If that makes him happy... you're all right with it. Maybe a little more than all right, but that's all you're willing to admit to yourself for now. And as much as you dislike the thought of being that fragile... being his paper man doesn't sound all that bad. After all, when you really think about it... don't his hands do all of the same things you just realised yours do? Isn't he even now bringing you peace with the gentle clutching of his fingers against your ribs? He is, just as he bandages you when you need it or memorises each new line in your face with the utmost care or take away the pain left when you bruise your own self. He does, and despite yourself that you hope that he always will, you will find a way to settle it with yourself when necessary.

Being made of paper is only a detriment when you have nothing to support you... and you know he will never deny you that.

And neither will you deny that to him.


End file.
